


Hey Jealousy

by Anonymississippi



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Guns, Jealousy, Killing Eve Week, Knives, Villanelle kills redneck Santa, chaotic murderesses, mention of death by alligator?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:33:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26278708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymississippi/pseuds/Anonymississippi
Summary: Simon and Garfunkel. The Gin Blossoms. The unsettling banjo riff from the Deliverance soundtrack. All unexpected tunes referenced while on the lam. Eve drives a big rig. Villanelle offs Santa.And somehow, maybe, they come to an understanding.ORThe one where Villanelle finds out about Eve and Hugo in Rome and somehow murders someone while they argue.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 10
Kudos: 147
Collections: Killing Eve Week 2020





	Hey Jealousy

Considering the better part of the past two years of her life had been dedicated to studying and tracking female killers, Eve found it a little strange that Villanelle had sworn off killing completely. She and said ex-assassin had spent two entire weeks traipsing about Europe to throw the Twelve off their scent, and while deboarding, or looking out the window, or fighting with Villanelle over who got the charger, Eve had had plenty of time to think about the ghosts of murders past.

(Villanelle’s victims, if that wasn’t clear).

Eve recalled stiletto patterns in pools of blood and poisons in fanciful glass bottles and the fraying, raw edges of working rope fashioned into nooses. The murder memories were clear as diamonds, moments distilled into these highly dramatic and impacting tableaus that Eve could cherry-pick from her mental Rolodex and inquire about, to the most detailed degree imaginable, now that Villanelle had hitched her horse to Eve’s proverbial cart for however long the pair of them could continue trekking.

So, yes. No more killing.

While driving, Villanelle had turned up the volume on the radio and let loose a mumble or two about poor maternal figures in her life. Eve did not push, because the names continued to stack up: Anna, Dasha, the mysterious Hélène, to say nothing of Villanelle’s _actual_ mother—

Eve took her at her word, which had somehow become more honest, if not exactly transparent, in the past couple of weeks. Villanelle said it, and Eve believed it: no more killing.

Maiming, however, was definitely on the table.

Especially if the old man with the crushed forearm stuck beneath the hood of their truck was any indication.

“AAAARRRRRGHGHGHGHG—!!!!”

“We’ve got to get him out or the engine won’t turn over!”

“Twenty-five?! _Twenty-five_ , Eve?!”

“Can you please be mad about literally anything else happening right now?!” Eve shouted back.

Villanelle was pouting in the midday sun, not helping in the slightest. The man with the broken arm was starting to sway forward and over the hood of their stolen pick-up; he looked so pained his face had turned white, and Eve didn’t have the wherewithal to mop puke up off the front of their vehicle, lest it fly back onto the windshield and leave sick everywhere (they’d already discovered the wipers didn’t really work once they hit a coastal storm cruising through Maryland).

“If you raise the hood he will just get free and try to kill us again. I think it’s good his arm got stuck,” Villanelle harrumphed, digging the toe of her boot on the roadside gravel. “Just like the other psychopath who wanted me to murder you in Rome, but you probably wouldn’t remember, because you were riding some skinny—”

“I'm sorry,” Eve fumed, turning from the not-so-quiet killer-for-hire trapped under their carhood, “But you _did_ almost murder me in Rome!”

“ _Almost_.”

“Villanelle, what the fu—”

“I would have murdered you harder if I’d known you’d just gotten off with a twenty-five year-old Oxford arsehole, Eve.”

“I swear to God, if you don’t—”

“AAAAARRRRRRRGGGGHHHHAAAWWWOOOOOOOOO—!”

“Ohhh howling, we’re howling now—you hear that?!” Eve beat both hands on the side of the pick-up, the hollow thuds startling the trapped trucker dude so much that he lurched backward, which only served to snap his radius clean in half.

The howling turned to a pitiful whimper and the poor trucker man just slumped forward on the hood, exhausted and likely in the first twitchy convulsions of shock. Eve let her forehead fall against the searing, sun-hot metal of the truck and closed her eyes, defeated.

“How the hell did we get here?” she muttered.

“Everything was fine until you started on about your posh little fuckboy—”

“Not here as in, _arguing about your jealousy issues_ ,” Eve spat. “But here as in, _lost in the swamps of nowhere with a trucker-killer-for-hire stuck underneath our only means of transport_.”

Villanelle rolled her eyes so hard Eve hoped they got stuck in her head.

_What an asshole._

Even though it was early November, the sun shone high and hot in the states once they crossed the Mason-Dixon. Two days previous, they’d hot-wired a rickety ’92 Ford Ranger in a Denny’s parking lot in Jersey. They had puttered down the east coast interstates after a hasty flight from Heathrow to Newark, and eventually stalled in lukewarm, soupy air past mile marker 223 off a county highway in the middle of damn nowhere, which… wasn’t all that terrible to begin with. They’d hopped out of the cab and pic-nicked on gas station snacks and sodas in the truck bed, waiting for a car to pass.

That’s where they finally started to open up a little more, Eve about Kenny, and Bill, and her hazy months of emptiness and spicy Korean noodles. Villanelle sat sweating on the hump of the wheel well, picking at a thread on her sleeve as she talked about marrying a Spanish woman for money, Dasha’s manipulations, her desire to get what was hers from Konstantin.

Eventually, because they had to, they talked about Rome. About Raymond. And Aaron, and the amazing clothes, the closet, the bedsheets, that night with the earpiece…and then it all went south, because Eve made a _Mrs. Robinson_ joke and then Villanelle had started shouting at her about Hugo. The really, extremely not mature (“ _I-am-being-mature,-EVE!_ ”) assassin stormed off, making it all of twenty-five yards north before Eve saw her arm shoot up in the air, waving like a madwoman, which—well, not far off the mark.

The big rig Villanelle flagged down coasted to a stop on the gravel about ten yards in front of their truck, and the man who ambled down looked like every kind of cliche Eve had seen in road-trip movies as a teenager. Their Samaritan appeared in the form of a white-bearded older gentleman in overalls and a New Holland trucker hat, KRUTZ SHIPPING emblazoned across the tire flaps, but they didn’t have many options with their only mode of transport on the fritz. They’d passed the nearest town maybe forty-five minutes ago, and the dilapidated billboards heralding the coming savior and the exits for sex-shops and gun shows hadn’t given Eve the most reassuring feeling about slogging back through bum-fuck-Deliverance for help.

Turns out, Eve’s paranoia was justified. Said trucker-Samaritan had not only been suspect, he’d been a last-minute hire by… someone. Probably the Twelve, though Eve wouldn’t put much past Carolyn after what she’d seen at Paul’s house.

Trucker man spent all of two minutes tinkering below the Ranger’s hood before Eve could tell he had no clue what he was doing. Events post-tinker transpired too quickly for her to remember properly: there was the gun, and the knife, and Villanelle swiftly bonking the hood prop rod out of the way so that the enormous metal sheet came slamming down on the man’s hand, crunching every bone and bit of cartilage so gruesomely it reminded Eve of Rice Crispies— _snap, crackle,_ and one spine-chilling _pop!_ Villanelle had kicked the gun Eve hadn’t even seen out of reach and judiciously plunged the rinky-dink pocket knife above the man’s knee, crippling him and forcing him to collapse but for the tug of his broken hand, wedged firmly beneath the hood of the truck.

Eve had been very helpful throughout the entire affair, screaming _AAAAAHHHHH!!!!!_ and _shit-shit-shit!!!_ while Villanelle tussled with the aged trucker.

Despite Eve’s panic, she had managed to grab the keys off the bearded trucker man’s belt loop, and skittered back out of reach as he howled in pain again. Eve was still trying not to hyperventilate when Villanelle turned, all calm and collected, to address the real issue:

“I just don’t see why you couldn’t have gone back to your room,” Villanelle tromped up to Eve, arms crossed over her chest.

_Jesus, she wasn’t even breathing hard._

“We could have had a nice time, just ourselves. Like phone sex.”

“You’re—” Eve heaved, shaking the ring of keys back in Villanelle’s stupidly calm face. “You’re still pissed about Hugo?! That was—we just—he—why are we even still talking about this?! There is a _man_ beneath our _truck_ who tried to _kill_ us!”

“Yes, and?” Villanelle pressed. “That’s dealt with, this isn’t.”

“Not dealt with?! God, okay, I… Jesus, alright, how ‘bout this. I was married, Villanelle,” Eve bit back, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I was still married, then. Whatever unhinged jealousy issues you’ve got going on, please remember I was married and you found the wherewithal not to go batshit over Niko—”

Villanelle’s brow furrowed. “You would’ve never forgiven me if I—”

“Your own insecurities don’t give you any kind of excuse to go flagging down strange old men driving eighteen-wheelers while we are literally running from assassins just because you’re pissed at me!”

“How was I supposed to know that he was an assassin, too?!” Villanelle scoffed incredulously. “He looks like Father Christmas.”

“A Father Christmas who will take us out in a fan boat and feed us to ten-foot alligators,” Eve argued, peeking from behind the hands clasped tightly over her eyes to see if Villanelle exhibited the tiniest smidge of remorse.

_Nope._

There was the pouting, and then a characteristic eye gleam that Eve found both infuriating and regretfully intriguing.

“Well,” Villanelle shrugged, “That’s one way to dispose of a body.”

“No, just… just no,” Eve insisted, taking one—two—three calming breaths, before pivoting in the gravel and stooping down to pick up the small handgun Villanelle had wrestled away from their attacker.

“What are you going to do with that?” Villanelle snorted.

“Try to get some information out of him.”

“He does not strike me as the type to know much,” she argued.

“Yeah, well, plenty of people have said that about me,” Eve mumbled, taking the piece and moving away from Villanelle. “And now look where I am.”

“…where are you?”

“On the run…” Eve huffed, putting one bullet into the front tire of their Ford, “from a crime syndicate,” she rounded toward the back of the cab, and shot out the back tire as well, “with a reformed sociopath who takes more issue with my sex life than she does with the fact that I’m about to kill Santa Claus.” She pressed the barrel of the gun against the man’s temple and stooped to look in his eyes, addressing him. “Who sent you?”

“Eve—”

“Not now!”

“No, really, Eve—”

Eve caught movement out of the corner of her eye just in time, stumbling back as the man swung his one good meaty arm out, only catching a glancing blow against her shoulder. Villanelle had replaced her in record time, and was twisting the pocketknife she’d lodged in Santa’s knee deeper into the flesh of his thigh.

“That wasn’t very nice, Santa.”

“EEEEEERRRRGGGGGGHHHHH—!!!”

“Yes, I know, quite painful,” Villanelle said. “Now, you do not seem like the type of trucker country man that would come after a couple of innocent ladies on the road in the middle of nowhere. So you are either a sex trafficker, or working for someone who knows a little something about the pair of us, hmm?”

Eve watched as Villanelle bared down and tugged upwards, the dull blade slicing through flesh and tobacco-stained denim, the glint of silver in November stained by inky black blood. Eve thought of the Forest of Dean, and Villanelle's mourning outfit, her perfect red lipstick, and the hollow, haunted look of the Ghost once Eve had stepped back into the shipping container.

_Monster._

Her or Villanelle or… one monster riling up the other, as soon as it had found a fun playmate. A pair of monsters, on the run in America, doing their damnedest to get to Cuba before twelve little demons contracted Santa and his eighteen wheels to put a stop to their journey.

Of course her life had morphed into some fucked-up children’s story.

_Of course._

Eve couldn’t quite make out the inarticulate gurgle of distressed southern drawl, but by the time Villanelle rose to her feet she seemed only marginally distracted; exasperated, really, with the trucker sent to kill them on a country highway.

“Did you get anything?”

“Nothing useful,” Villanelle said. “Nothing that we did not know already.”

“The Twelve?”

“Who else?” she shrugged. “But he is not one of theirs… a, how you say… free contractor? Not professionally trained, of course, hit man, maybe? Certainly not assassin, in the classic sense. He probably just uses that big truck of his to run down—”

“What does this mean?” Eve cut her off. “Big picture.”

“We have to keep going,” Villanelle said, frowning. “The longer we sit, the longer they have to trace us. Or send someone better.”

“How do you think they knew where we were in the first—”

“Evasion depends on speed and quick decisions and a lot of luck, Eve. We cannot afford to speculate.”

“Again, though, where does that leave us?” Eve said. “If you won’t let me speculate about what they know, how can we make a plan to—”

“Well, you shot out the tires of our only truck.”

“Not our only truck,” Eve mumbled, gaze tilting toward the big rig.

“I have many talents, Eve, but that is much larger than a European—”

“I can drive it.”

“What? The lorry?”

“They’re called eighteen wheelers, here. They’re a little larger.”

“Yeah, okay, and my dick is bigger than Hugo’s,” Villanelle scoffed, adding another eye roll for effect.

“You know what I mean.”

“You can’t drive that.”

“Keep underestimating me,” Eve growled, and pushed past Villanelle until she was standing over redneck Santa, who looked to be bleeding out. Eve held the gun up, hand shaking slightly.

“What are you doing?”

“You said he didn’t have anything useful,” Eve muttered.

“He doesn’t, but you don’t have to—I can—”

“You don’t kill anymore, remember?” Eve was shaking, and sweating, and _this close_ to hyperventilating. “At least let me put him out of his misery.”

She didn’t get the chance.

Villanelle pried the gun from her grip and put one bullet through Santa’s skull, killing him instantly. Between his twisted arm and slicked leg, the bullet hole was the cleanest wound of all.

Eve remembered sun, and slick black, and how she was thirsty. She remembered the weight of the keys in her hand, and the dull effect of dying eyes. She remembered the crunch of Villanelle’s boots coming back to her, and the way hands had pressed against her shoulders, slowing her breathing into something resembling human. She gasped, and Villanelle waited. She doubled-over, and Villanelle waited.

When she finally stood, Villanelle was still there.

_Somehow, always, in her memory or her imagination—_

“It’s different when they’re after us,” Villanelle said, pocketing the gun and pacing round the back of the cab. She grabbed their duffel bags, one with cash, another with sundry items Eve still didn’t know about, even two weeks into the rest of their lives on the run. She tossed it all at Eve’s feet, and stood in front of her. Took her hands.

The heat and the shaking and the sunlight reminded her of Rome.

Eve almost vomited.

“Eve?”

“Yeah…”

“ _Eve._ ”

“Sorry,” Eve whispered, twisting away from the puddle of black blood in the gravel. If a random motorist approached from the opposite direction, it would look like a really bad oil leak. Upon closer examination, they might be able to spin it as a hitch-hiking abduction gone wrong. Or what if they called the authorities? Used one of Villanelle’s myriad aliases to dig them out of this, would that even be feasible?

“Eve,” Villanelle said again.

She caught Eve’s chin between forefinger and thumb, and pressed their foreheads together. They stayed like that for far too long on the roadside. The corpse leaked at their feet while the sun shone hot and humid in the swamp, but Eve couldn’t pull herself away. She felt Villanelle’s grounding hands enclosed around her own, felt her body stop shaking, the longer they breathed together. When she drew away from the embrace, Villanelle was stooping slightly to stare into her eyes.

It was almost… charming.

“Are you okay?”

Eve clenched her jaw. Nodded. She was not okay. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t keep going. It’s what she’d been doing for going on two years, so why stop now?

“We need to go,” Villanelle murmured, tucking a wayward curl behind her ear. “Can you really drive that truck?”

Eve looked at the cab of the semi and thought back to another life, a long, long time ago, in and out of the upstate with her dad, weaving off of exits and interstate cloverleafs and pouring over her Stephen King novels in the sleeper bunk while the radio crackled and state lines blurred.

“Yeah, I… it’s been a while, I’ll have to see the cab—”

“Let’s go.”

Eve remembered the keys she’d taken from dead-Santa and felt their weight like brass knuckles in her hand. Is this who she was now? Some kind of… hobo-killer? The weight of the key-ring in her hand moved over her entire body, settling deep and sour in her stomach. If she climbed up in that cab and saw a photo of his kid, or his grandkid (like her father had always kept on the dash), she was definitely going to throw up.

Up the steps, into the cab, and months-stale travel smell triggered such an intense sense memory she almost heaved right on top of the enormous steering wheel. It felt like a very bad flashback, one she didn’t have time to explain; hot leather sticking to the underside of her thighs, concentrated air streams blowing against her chin; she tasted phantom salt and vinegar chips, and told her dad that Blondie wasn’t cool anymore, to please change the station. It took her a moment to ground herself, to wrench her mind from memory, but, to Eve’s surprise, the basic elements of the controls were all the same: clutch, toggle switches, gear shift, gauges, trailer air supply and parking break knobs in their bright, primary colors. 

Eve could do this. She could get them out of here. To Cuba. To safety, or, somewhere just adjacent. She could do this.

_She could do this._

It took her a few minutes, and to her credit, Villanelle did not comment while Eve worked out the operations. She ran her fingers over switches and flipped through stained and crinkled pages of an operating manual she found shoved into a center console. Villanelle did not tell her to hurry, or interrupt her study. The patience was refreshing.

By some divine grace, or either through sheer dumb luck, Eve had yet to clock a personal photo of trucker-Santa and his multi-generational family or herd of alpacas or Boy Scout troop or whatever other sympathetic backstory she could make up for the bloated, bleeding corpse across the highway. She tamped down her sympathies, because all that mattered now was getting her and Villanelle away from the incriminating body and one step closer to Konstantin and his money. She could have her meltdown on the beach, with a mojito in hand and a shit-ton of therapy, all on Villanelle’s tab, if the plan to extort Villanelle's former handler held any water.

Knobs twisted, switches flicked, brake released, clutch pressed and easy acceleration so finally, _finally,_ they were driving away from Santa’s stiffening body.

“Once we see a sign for a stop I can pull over and we can walk to the station,” Eve said. “We’re going to look so conspicuous if we actually park this thing with the other rigs.”

“How do you know how to drive this?” Villanelle asked, twisting over her shoulder to stare at the gross blankets and empty hot pickle bags on the floor of the sleeper. She screwed up her nose, and Eve had to remember that Villanelle was an assassin for hire. She was not cute. Eve was pissed off, and rightfully so. Even if non-combative Villanelle seemed… a little cute.

“My dad,” Eve said, but didn’t elaborate. Feeling the vibration beneath her hands was almost too much already; she couldn’t talk about him after fleeing a literal murder scene without bursting into tears. And Villanelle, since her turn to the more peaceful—merciful?—took the hint.

“I… apologize,” Villanelle said eventually. They passed another mile marker and finally a road sign indicating a stop seventeen miles south. Villanelle pointed to it, then continued: “For getting so worked up about Rome and… making things worse.”

“Huh,” Eve commented, a little wary of getting into deeper topics. “That’s new.”

“What?”

“You apologizing,” Eve answered. “Or… acknowledging that what you did was wrong.”

Villanelle blew a raspberry and slumped in the seat, her arms crossed. “I don’t care if it was wrong,” she corrected. “I care that it put you in—”

“Danger?”

“Maybe.”

“Look at you, twenty-eight and finally learning that actions have consequences.”

"Nothing like fucking a twenty-five-year-old."

"Are we still on that?" Eve asked, her fingers hugging tighter against the steering wheel.

"No."

"Why are you so hung up on that?" Eve continued. "You fuck multiple women a night."

"And you're not jealous?"

"No," Eve insisted, tightening her grip on the wheel, thinking about the ease with which Villanelle pulled the trigger. "That's not the part of you I'm jealous of."

They continued driving for two more songs on the radio, Eve's confession settling between them.

“Carolyn was wrong,” Villanelle said after a while, her eyes tracking all of the switches and lights on the console. “The cold-turkey… stopping completely. It is hard. Even… even when you understand me. When I don’t want to do it, or… be the way I am, it is still hard.”

“Is that why you pick fights?” Eve asked, thinking back to all the bickering they’d done in their two weeks on the road. All the arguments that didn’t seem to mean anything.

Villanelle shrugged again.

“You find things to argue about because… what?” Eve pressed. “You don’t want me to understand you?”

“I don’t want you to _shrink_ me,” Villanelle said. “I’ve had enough therapy to last a lifetime.”

“You didn’t seem to mind when I was asking about you.”

“When?”

“In Paris.”

“Because you liked me,” Villanelle said. “Even then. You weren’t shrinking me, or… trying to make yourself feel better about liking me, by—by—I am losing the word—you moved your liking to the fuckboy because you didn’t want to admit you liked me for me. Even after…” Villanelle flicked a wrist, as if she could encompass every slit throat, every bullet, drop of poison, garrote to the neck— _Bill_ —all with the wave of her fingers.

“I do not like when people tell me one thing, but they… they do not feel it,” Villanelle said.

“Or the reverse?” Eve asked.

“Huh?”

“When people feel things… maybe bad things, or… things they don’t think they should feel… but they feel them anyway and just don’t admit it.”

“Yes,” Villanelle said carefully. “Like that.”

“I almost pushed a guy onto the tracks in the tube,” Eve said, checking her speedometer. A car hadn’t passed by on the country highway in hours, but she couldn’t help the habit. “That night you came to see me, when I put the hit on myself—”

“You pushed a—”

“Almost pushed,” Eve interrupted. “He bumped into me and I—I thought I could do it, just for a second.”

Eve tore her eyes away from the road to glance at Villanelle, whose hands were tucked into her abdomen as she made a meal of her bottom lip. “I thought I could, too,” Villanelle said with a smile. “Just for a second.”

“Thought you could…?”

“ _Not_ push someone onto the tracks in the tube.”

Moments passed, but Eve didn’t ask for details. Villanelle had just requested that she refrain from the shrinking. And if she was going to be gracious about Eve’s past, the least Eve could do would be to return the favor.

“Sometimes, I—I wish I could,” Eve confessed. “I wish I could be the one to do what has to be done, when it has to—”

“But you don’t have to,” Villanelle cut her off. “Because I can.”

“I know,” Eve said, sucking a deep breath in through her nose. “I know, I just… I thought I was so good at holding it back or—compartmentalizing or… hell, I don’t know. My little monster just wants to play but I don’t know what makes her tick.”

“Maybe she’s jealous of my little monster?” Villanelle asked.

Eve chuckled. “Maybe. Yours seems to take a straight shot to the playground without any obstacles in her way.”

“Obstacles?”

“You know… guilt,” Eve explained. “Morality. Ethics. Trying to do the right—”

“Right thing, yeah, I know,” Villanelle picked up. “It is boring.”

“I know.”

“Not nearly as fun as the killing.”

“I know.”

“But the killing,” and here Villanelle paused, thinking hard as she fiddled with the air conditioner vents, turning them to blow directly on her face. Some 90’s song rock song by the Gin Blossoms played lightly underneath their conversation, background noise at best, some twisted metaphor at worst.

Eve hadn’t noticed from earlier, but Villanelle had broken a sweat in her struggle with Santa.

“…I do not know if the killing is as nice as the understanding. I… I do not feel the same, though. It hasn’t happened before. I am still trying to… figure it out.”

“I’m sorry I fucked Hugo, I guess,” Eve sighed, flicking an indicator light to pull over onto the wide shoulder. She saw a Love’s sign over the next hill, standing tall and imposing amongst the southern pines where, hopefully, Villanelle could find yet another older car to hotwire that could get them down to Miami in one piece.

“I’m sorry I gave your clothes to Pamela and called her Eve while we had sex.”

“Wait… _what?_ ”

Villanelle brightened, seemingly delighted by Eve’s confusion. “Don’t worry about it,” Villanelle insisted, yanking at the door handle and plopping onto the gravel six feet below.

“No, Villanelle, stop—!”

“Come on, Eve, we have to get going!” Villanelle sing-songed, traipsing up the country highway with two duffel bags slung over her shoulder.

“I'm not getting down until you explain what you did with my clothes!” Eve yelled, sticking her head out the window and trying to remember the protocol for shutting off the entire rig.

“Blah-blah-blah, Eve, you got better clothes and perfume, I cannot hear you!” Villanelle shouted over her shoulder. Eve swore, and just abandoned the truck, climbed down, and trotted after her.

“Villanelle, wait—I said stop— _hey_!” Eve hollered, feeling her claws dig into the gravel underfoot as she caught up, ready and eager to follow Villanelle’s monster into the playground ahead. “Who the _fuck_ is Pamela?!”

**Author's Note:**

> if the writers aren't going to give eve a backstory then i sure as hell am
> 
> comments and kudos appreciated, but I know this is crack at best *insert upside down smiley emoji but i can't be bothered to actually put it in here so yay* *also I've had wine* *proofread while tipsy* *wooooooo*


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